


the world has these men’s hands

by prettylittlegoat



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Corsetry, Crossdressing, M/M, Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 10:09:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5623489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettylittlegoat/pseuds/prettylittlegoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Bond reached his hand, a gently calloused inquiry, to that narrow little waist, that brocade-swathed hourglass. Q’s own hand folded over it, holding it there at that smallest part of his torso, and made a high noise in his throat at the movement of Bond’s thumb between two rows of boning.</p>
<p>The kiss was as much a question as Bond’s touch, and Q tried his damnedest to answer it. His lips, soft-parted, were pliant against the other’s, but his tongue slipped over the chap of Bond’s lip first, touched tooth and the smooth muscle of Bond’s tongue first. When they broke apart, Bond looked as if to cry and Q felt a heated rush from the look of unabated infatuation, benediction, even, in the agent’s eyes."</p>
<p>bond catches q in a corset, and just can't help himself</p>
            </blockquote>





	the world has these men’s hands

**Author's Note:**

> title is from the e.e. cummings poem 'between the breasts'.  
> this is written, sort of, for my friend danny, because he's the best, but also it's written for me, because corsets.  
> this is the first time i've written any porn in a long while, so comments are very welcome. again, i haven't a beta, so there may be typoes or strangenesses otherwise that i didn't catch

The final snap of the busk sent shivers through Q, and a little bitten-lip grin spread on his flushed-warm face as his fingers trembled there at its front. They were pressed, light as questions, to the stiff fabric between the boning, and he pushed his fingers more into the give of the brocade and shuddered, again, at the dulled feel of touch through the garment. The soft stroke and press of his fingers tickled in the most delicious way, and he took a pleasure-sharp breath at it. He stood there for a time, corset loose around his waist, with eyes shut, gentle, against the brush of his hand. A little part of him fancied another’s hand, gentle at his waist and spread against the smooth of the corset, and his breath caught again at it.

A hand, a touch curiously, tripped down over the binding on the bottom of the garment, felt the slick and catch of the silk knickers. Another tremor crept down his spine, but he did not move his hand further down. The thumb circled, absently, where the loopy bits of lace met the soft, peach-down skin of his thigh, and gooseflesh raised at it.

After a time, soft-drunken with the sensation of his own touch, Q forced himself to taper those too-gentle touches off to nothing, lest he get distracted. With a deep breath, he lifted his hands from his willowy sides and reached behind him. His slender fingers, free now of their tremble, if red at the knuckles, found the loops of cord there, gave a little tug. A whine came from his mouth, and “shit,” he breathed.

With some determination, Q more firmly took the cordage in hand and pulled it tight, inch by inch, feeling the slip of it over steel-slick grommets and rich cloth. With each pull, each bend of his bird-thin wrists away from his back, the corset slipped a bit tighter, and his breath caught with each little tightness. Every so often, he paused and, holding the loops in one palm, he would adjust the modesty panel without much thought, humming a soft little note at the slip of it over the bare skin, pale and new-smooth, of his back.

Already, without having laced the custom-sewn number near completely - or, indeed, near his limit, though they were one and the same - Q could feel the tension of arousal gathering, blood-hot, just below his stomach. A flush colored his shoulders and streaked across the snowy skin of his cheeks, nose, slipped down his chest. He gently let his head roll back, imagined the breath of someone strong and dangerous lifting the soft little peachskin hairs of his neck, warming the skin there at the swell of muscle on the join of shoulder and throat; a calloused hand would press the hair, sweat-stuck, back from his forehead and kiss him there, tender and hot. Another whine.

With the cordage still gathered firmly in hand, Q clicked his way across the warm and worn floors of his flat’s living room to the bedroom door. The almost-sharp noise of those sweet little velvety matte nubuck pumps, d’Orsay with a slender little shoulder strap and a silver-bright clasp, sent a heady little rush through him. It was a taboo habit, the shoes, and his body sung with it.

It did not take much for him to secure the strong loops of cord around the bedroom door, hands moving deftly, and he was glad for it; he wasn’t sure how much more fussing he really wanted to do before losing himself in the intoxication of his favorite verboten habit. With one hand pressed to the front of the garment, over his stomach, he pulled forward, and let out a little breathy noise at the garment closing further. After a few more tugs, pausing between for soft panting that was, no doubt, unrelated to the compression of the corset, he reached a hand behind him.

His slender fingers, sure in their movements, found the first crossing of the cordage, at the top of the back opening, and fixed, gently, the lacing guard again. With a bend of his wrist, he secured the cords in his hand and pulled them. His eyes stuttered shut, and he could feel his hair sticking to the sweat of his neck, his forehead, as he pulled. With some effort, he opened his eyes again and pushed down the heat that spiked up from between his legs with every pull. Continuing, he looped his fingers under the next cross and pulled the section taut.

Sometime in the process, his eyes fluttered shut again. His fingers moved surely, and, if a soft little tremble worked its way into the tips of them, he didn’t notice overmuch. His mouth hung softly open, lips wet and bitten-pink, and his tongue was soft, just behind his teeth. The flush, earlier a soft little glow, was a bright reddish smudge across his face, down his cheeks and neck and chest, and atop it was a sweat-sheen, a glow in the lights of his flat.

A cool breeze shifted across his face and chest, and he leaned into it, drinking in the cool relief before his mind sped up, thought something was off, and his eyes snapped open. Instantly, Q had a hand on the bookshelf beside him, reaching for a hidden little something behind a cast iron bookend, as he stared at the suddenly open window. There, looking as a child with fingers sugar-sticky from the pie, stood James Bond.

“What the fuck are you doing, 007?” Q managed to get out, at the same time Bond visibly swallowed.

“Q,” he began, shifting his weight the rest of the way into the flat. His face was a mask of awe, struck with the sight of his Quartermaster in that shaping corset and hot with the sight of the ladies’ underwear and the pumps on the boy of a man. “Q,” he said again, seemingly stricken dumb by what his eyes were taking in.

Q could smell the London night on him, the leather and the scotch, and it wasn’t an altogether unpleasant smell. “You oughtn’t be here.”

The agent swallowed thickly, chipped-ice eyes still roving up Q’s willowy figure. “That might be true, but I can’t say I mind that I am.” Neither said a word for a time, there in front of Q’s bedroom. “I got home early. From Germany - it wasn’t a long trip,” he offered up the words like sacrament, a holy little plea: forgive me, and reward me, they said.

Q eyed him, smelled the tannins and the alcohol and nodded, thinking of the cutting little bits of flirt exchanged on comm, the notes left with equipment. The bitten-lip grin was there on his face again, and he could see that Bond was stricken by the expression, and he smoothed his slender hand down his sides, stopping at his waist. With little pushing, the tips of his pale fingers almost met there, at that narrowest join of his body, and he let out a little noise - for Bond’s benefit, he told himself. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever laced a lady into her corset, agent?”

“I have.”

“Then I would appreciate your help. You must know how” - his tongue smoothed a bit of wet over those cherried lips; he was taunting Bond and knew it - “hard it can be to get it tight enough.” And he pulled forward, knowing Bond’s eyes - pupils blown and irises a ring of glass shard-blue - would take in that subtle bit of cinching, would imagine the job completed.

The agent, all 5’10” of his tanned-golden self, sandy hair and well-loved leather jacket, came to Q like he was shy, and looked upon the Quartermaster like one in the presence of something truly extraordinary. “With pleasure,” he rumbled, low in his chest, and - like a question - reached a hand out to accept the cords. Q easily slipped the loops off the brass of his doorknob, and turned his back to Bond. The corset was only perhaps two inches from closed at its farthest, but it seemed to Q like it was going to take quite a while; he couldn’t say that he particularly minded, however.

The agent took those cords, and Q braced himself, hands against the solidness of the door, made a soft little breathy noise into it. Behind him, the smell of leather and the warm-sharp breath of scotch were stronger, and he could hear the soft little ‘hahh’ that Bond let out when he first tugged, testing.

With practiced surety, Bond looped his thick fingers under the first cross after fixing, gently and with a touch like a breath, the lacing guard. “How tight?” he whispered, like his words could break.

“I can safely tightlace this one,” Q answered, and he could hear the sharpish breath Bond took at that - near a whine, and it send a spike of heat through Q - as he doubtlessly imagined the pinched waist the Quartermaster would have, that he spoke of ‘this one’ and there must be others, that he enjoyed this enough to train to tightlace.

After a time of soft little breaths and when both had gathered themselves, those hands, unshaking-deft, pulled the cross to nothing, pulled the slack through the next one. Q panted softly in front of as he cinched the back opening to closed. Every tug brought another soft breathy noise from Q, another little twitch of the muscle in his back, and Bond’s face was blood-hot and sheened with the thoughts of the Quartermaster’s face.

Placing the heel of his palm on the low dip of Q’s back, he locked his elbow and pulled, with some finality, the loops in the middle of those rows of grommets. The muscles in the arm holding the cordage rippled softly with the movement, and Q whined with the strength and pressure there at his back. Bond held his hand there, held Q there, for longer than was likely necessary, but neither seemed like to become upset with it.

Quickly, having removed his hand, Bond tied the loops in a hanging bow there at the small of Q’s waist, and he let out a breath, hot and damp, that he hadn’t felt himself hold. He watched, wide-eyed and with his hot-wet mouth open, as Q turned in place. The soft little clicks of the d’Orsay pumps kept his focus, what little was left, on the bird-boned man in front of him.

Unbidden, Q’s slender hand went to Bond’s rough-stubbled face, thumb on the ridge of bone there at his eye, fingers curving along the sharp jaw. He wasn’t much surprised when Bond’s eyes shut, seemingly extempore, and his head tilted into the touch. A feather-soft sigh came from the agent’s lips, and the smell of scotch burned strong between them. Q leaned to kiss it from his lips.

Bond reached his hand, a gently calloused inquiry, to that narrow little waist, that brocade-swathed hourglass. Q’s own hand folded over it, holding it there at that smallest part of his torso, and made a high noise in his throat at the movement of Bond’s thumb between two rows of boning.

The kiss was as much a question as Bond’s touch, and Q tried his damnedest to answer it. His lips, soft-parted, were pliant against the other’s, but his tongue slipped over the chap of Bond’s lip first, touched tooth and the smooth muscle of Bond’s tongue first. When they broke apart, Bond looked as if to cry and Q felt a heated rush from the look of unabated infatuation, benediction, even, in the agent’s eyes.

Q turned in what space there was between the agent and the door, and opened it, swung it inwards. With another kiss, a glancing little shadow of what they’d only just shared, he said to the agent to sit on the bed, and to leave on his jacket, and to relax a little. The agent did what Q bade him, mostly, and leaned back on his elbows to watch Q’s figure, there in the doorway.

The wood floors continued into the bedroom, and the click of Q’s heels had Bond shutting his eyes, biting his lip. Q, gentle as a breeze but somehow with all the force of a storm, gave a gentle slap to Bond’s cheek, and his eyes, as blue as to be clear, snapped open.

“This isn’t for you, entirely, but it’s not wholly for me, either,” Q said, “and I rather appreciate an attentive audience.”

Bond said nothing, but he nodded, and did not again close his eyes but to blink. Q’s hands were smoothed down his sides, thumbs then hooked up and under the bottom edge of the corset. He pulled down the lace stretch of the band of those knickers, and Bond’s breath caught at the little strip, widening, of skin that appeared there on the sharp line of Q’s hipbone. He sat up, reached out a hand, caught, a bit roughly, that hip, thumb jutting into the soft of flesh just above it, and Q shifted into the touch.

“You’re,” he began, slowly, “fucking beautiful like this. You look” - his thumbnail bit into the soft white skin - “breakable, and strong.”

“Break me?” Q breathed, and took the last step forward to meet his lips to Bond’s. They kissed, so tender and heated, for a short time, before Bond’s hands - one on hip, one on waist - looped around to pull the willowy man on top of him, back corset-straight, bent over the bed at the hips, unable to bend elsewhere. Q gave a soft little moan into the kiss, and Bond seemed to break his earlier dumb awe at that, as he dragged the other’s lip into his mouth, gave a sharp little pull that earned his a soft little gasp. One had slid down to Q’s arse, and the thumb slipped under those knickers.

With some grace, and much raw strength, he rolled and pushed their bodies at once, not breaking the kiss, so that he sat straddling those sharp hips. He worried the Quartermaster’s lip, drinking in the whines it earned him. Breaking the kiss, he looked into Q’s hazel-grey eyes, and grin his wolfish grin.

“I’d love to.”

A high moan from Q at that, his pale face flushed as he looked away, somewhat shocked, somehow, by Bond’s carnality. His throat was bared, and Bond took it as such an invite, starting gently, but scraping teeth over the skin and meeting them for sharp little nips, listening for the whines Q seemed so apt to give him. At the join of neck and shoulder, he opened his mouth and bit and sucked for a time, until Q was writhing at the dull-sharp pain of the mark being left.

Bond’s hand smoothed up and down the brocade of Q’s corset, thumbed over the busk. Tauntingly, he brushed over Q’s cock, half-hard and already straining against the soft-catch of the silk, but he didn’t give it too much attention. “Tell me what you want, Quartermaster?”

After a second, Q gathered himself and spoke. “James - I can call you that, yes?” It wasn’t a question. “I want you to get into the drawer” - he gestured - “and retrieve a condom and the lubricant, and then I want to ride you into the mattress.”

It was Bond’s turn to whine; he’d expected nothing so direct, and Q grinned with the heat he could see washing over the agent. A stuttering breath later, and he was rolling off Q’s hips towards the bedside table. A condom, lube, and he shut the drawer again.

Q waited until Bond had turned again, and spoke. “I can’t seem to remove these, given the corset” - a thumb and a finger slipped under the stretch of the lace, strained, and tugged; a hand gestured to the sweet little heels - “and I thought you’d be willing to help.”

“Sit on the edge of the bed.” And Q did, sliding off the bed as sinuously as one can in a corset, leaning to perch there. He was panting softly, and looked completely wrecked already - hair wild and damp, face sheened and flushed, a tremble there in his hands. Bond dropped to his knees and lifted one of Q’s feet. Tenderly, he pressed a kiss to the soft skin at the top of the foot as he quickly unlatched the strap and slipped it off. Three more kisses to the bottom of the foot before he turned to the other, and repeated. While he did that, Q rested his foot on Bond’s shoulder, where a thick and calloused hand came to hold the ankle, smoothing his thumb over the bump of bone there.

When Bond turned, he scraped a bite into the bone there, and Q whined with it, before the agent rose to kneel. He nosed into the heat there at the join of Q’s thigh and groin, pressed fluttering little kisses to his cock where it strained against the silk., mouthed the little wet spot. Q pressed his feet to Bond’s shoulders, lifting himself fractionally, when Bond teased his hand under the Quartermaster’s arse and began to slide the fabric downwards. It was tossed somewhere, and neither cared where.

Bond, grinning again, took the head of Q’s cock into his mouth for a time, tasting the salt-bitter of his precome. He sucked there, gently, stroking the rest with his hand, before standing again to kiss Q. The Quartermaster leaned back, falling to the bed somewhat breathless and leaning up a fraction to continue the kiss as Bond followed him. Bond wedged his thigh between Q’s legs, moved it up and relished the breathy noises Q made against him.

Again, Bond suddenly flipped them, rolling Q, breathless, on top of him. He snapped open the bottle of lube, one handed, and watched as Q squirmed at even the sound. It snapped shut, and he saw, again, the Quartermaster jump at the sound, and he grinned with the knowledge of how responsive he was.

Q, straight-backed above him, could do little but whine, a touch breathlessly, as Bond circled his entrance, pressing gently at times, but giving no more. “Please,” panted Q, looking as if to cry, “please, I want - I, fuck! I need it. James, please!” At the sound of his name, Bond began to work the finger in, stopping at the first knuckle, only to continue when Q whined, broken-sharp, at him. He pressed in, stopping with that digit seated in Q, who whined at him again.

Bond kissed the bend of Q’s elbow, next to his face, as he curled that finger inwards, searchingly. Occasional shudders ran through Q’s body then, punctuating his vocal habits. When Q choked out a breathy moan and some words that might have been ‘please’ or ‘James’ or ‘fuck’, he grinned, and rubbed that spot until Q was red and panting and trembling, crumbling. Bond waited, let him breathe, and then he pressed, hot and firm, the second finger in until Q was, again, shaking above him and it was seated in his arse.

“Please,” he said, and Bond bit his forearm, teeth on those skin-deep veins, to distract from the spread of those two fingers. Bond curled them upwards, searching, and grinned when, again, he found that spot and a throaty groan spilled from Q and his muscles clenched. The hot press of a third, perhaps too early, had Q letting out a soft whimper. Bond paused, and Q immediately said for him to not stop, and to please continue, and how he needed him. The third finger was worked in easily enough, and Bond sat for a time, idly moving and stretching those fingers within Q, occasionally pressing against that spot and watching him writhe. He’d sucked a great mark into the soft-thin skin on the inside of Q’s elbow, and he kissed it then as he withdrew those fingers, wiped them on the covers.

Q lifted himself away from Bond and settled back, straddling his thighs, face hot-red and damp as he grinned again, shaky. Bond unzipped, unhurrying, and pushed down trousers - no undergarments to speak of, Q noted, and licked his lips - to free his cock, hot and heavy and smeared wet at the tip. He lazily reached for and handed the bright foil of the condom to Q, whose deft fingers easily tore it open and began to ease it down Bond’s shaft. Occasionally, he squeezed, moved his hand back to the head, rubbed a thumb over the tip, and Bond’s breath juddered with it.

Again, Bond snapped open the tube of lube, squeezing enough out, and capping it, in the span of a few seconds. Q removed his hand and watched as Bond smoothed that hand down his shaft, eyes fluttering with it and hand a subtle bit unsteady. Q watched as he worked the lube down over his cock and took some time to gently stroke himself. The agent seemed to be enjoying himself just as much - watching Q bite his lip red and swollen through hooded eyes.

Finally, Q pushed Bond’s hand away and shifted up onto his knees and forward, breath catching rough in his throat. He looked, eyes hooded and mouth wet and open, directly into Bond’s eyes as he began to sink down, slowly and tight-hot, an inch at a time. He lifted himself on trembling thighs, after every little bit, to slide down that much further. Bond groaned with it, feeling Q’s muscles clenching and relaxing as he seated Bond deeper inside himself with each movement. When, finally, Bond was seated in Q,t hey sat together like that for a time, unmoving, staring at one another before the Quartermaster let out another heady moan, head tilted back, with eyes still drilling into Bond’s as he ground his hips down.

“Fuck,” Bond groaned, lifting his torso up on one elbow, his other arm reaching to settle on Q’s pinched waist. The satiny brocade was body-warm, but unnatural slick, and he dug his fingertips into the spaces between the boning, watching as Q shuddered at the feel of another’s hands through the fabric.

Q hissed at the stretch as he lifted himself, gentle and tremblingly, off Bond’s cock. Just as gently, he lowered himself again, and again, and agian. Slowly, but somehow incredibly quickly, Q built himself a rhythm, rolling his hips as best he could in the restriction of the corset. One hand rested on the tight front of the garment, thumb smoothing over one of the cool clasps of the busk, while the other rested behind him on Bond’s slightly raised thigh. His eyes fluttered open and shut, and he panted while he fucked himself on Bond’s cock, rolling his hips down and doing his best to elicit as much noise from the agent as he was willing to give,

Q would clench occasionally when his lifted himself, thighs trembling at the weight, and draw it out, until Bond was cursing under him - “Fuck, Q, please, I need - oh, God - you,” - and moaning, and head thrown back, and a fistful of blanket in one hand. Q would slide back down quickly, angling his hips to find that spot inside himself that he knew so well, and then fuck himself on the heaviness of Bond’s cock.

“God, Q, I would - fuck - I would hold you down,” - a whine, and he grinned - “your throat, hold you by your throat, and fuck up into you until you came, crying for it,” Bond talked near-constantly, relishing the look on Q’s face as he rode him. “I’d fuck you hard enough you couldn’t breathe, in that tight little corset.” That was what did it - Q let out a sharp, whiny breath, and paused, and then began to fuck himself in earnest.

He was panting, his mouth wide and wet and red, and Bond lifted his hand from that willowy little waist to slide his thumb over Q’s reddened lips. He bowed his head to let the thumb between his lips, licking the pad of it, sucking it, to the first knuckle, into his mouth and biting, just in front of the folds of skin of the knuckle. Bond trailed that thumb out of Q’s mouth, leaving cold-wet trails down his face, flicking it across the pink of his nipples until Q whined with it.

Q’s hips began to stutter at Bond’s attentions to his chest, and his cock bobbed, heavy and dark, above Bond’s stomach. The agent moved his hands to grip the pale and sharp jut of Q’s hips, and he snapped his hips up into the wet heat of his arse, watching as the Quartermaster shook himself apart on Bond’s cock, filthy and debauched. One of his bird-slender hands reached down and, juddering, stroked himself until - 

“Choke me,” he whispered, as if shy, and then again louder, overwhelmed tears gathering in his eyes, and Bond grinned with it. A hand from Q’s hips reached up and found that throat, swan-neck, slender, and smoothed the thumb over the dip past the windpipe, softly tender. The hand, in second, tightened, and Q’s face reddened, and his tongue, so red-pink, rested on his lip. He snapped his hips upwards, fucked up into the boy, relishing how weak he went, how he seemed unable to move at all, how his hand barely stroked over himself for the pleasure distracting him. Red-faced and teary-eyed, he came, hard, unable to make any noise, though his mouth was wide, streaking come over Bond’s stomach, chest.

Q seemed to go pliant, and Bond, though not finished, slid himself out. When Q made a noise of protest, he hushed him and helped him to lay down. He smoothed a lock of hair off that pale cheek, straightened the corset, and slid back home in one smooth movement. Q shouted with it, clenching over that thickness, and the tears in his eyes spilled over and streaked down from his eyes as he brokenly whimpered. If it weren’t for the grin on his face as Bond established a punishing pace, hand on the boy’s bird-delicate throat, the agent might have thought him in pain. Q whined at the hand on his throat, looking up at Bond with a red, wet face. 

“James,” he breathed like a crying prayer, and Bond came breathing ‘Q’ onto those red-bitten lips beneath him, hunched over his willowy-cinched Quartermaster, hips locked and body trembling and sweat-sheened. After a time, he groaned, and relaxed. Gently, he disentangled himself, sliding out as Q grimaced at the feeling. “James.” 

“I know,” he said back as he reached up, and warm-gentle, wiped the tears from first one eye and then the other. It was a truth; whatever there was to know about this, he did. “I’m going to go find your bathroom. I’ll be back in a minute with a towel, alright?” And so he lifted himself, shedding stained clothing as he walked from the room.

He did come back, a beaten-up blue towel in hand. Gently, he lifted Q from the bed, and his heart wrenched when he coughed, lifted a hand to his throat. When they’d cleaned one another sufficiently, Q turned and Bond untied the bow at his waist. His fingers, not as deft with the post-fuck tremble, fumbled at loosening the cords, but did so without terribly much difficulty. He turned Q to face him, unclasping each hook-and-eye of the busk until Q was trembling and crumbly like a soft sugar cookie, there on the edge of that bed. 

Bond pressed kisses to the lines where the corset pressed, to the red band from his hand on that creamy throat, to the half-moon marks on the pale of Q’s hip from his thumb. Q laid back and let him and breathed in the scotch and sex on Bond and the smell of leather from the jacket that had, sometime, been abandoned on the bed next to them. After a time, they, like that, slept: one next to the other, but not being held - just being close.


End file.
